


i can be a mountain (when you're feeling valley low)

by brucespringsteen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Feelings Realization, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Sickfic, Talkative Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27277543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen/pseuds/brucespringsteen
Summary: “Proud of you for finding a place—you’re sogoodat that,” Geralt says, and Jaskier wants to be offended, he truly does, but then Geralt is adding, “We don’t have to stop,” like a bastard, and Jaskier sees red for a whole different reason than Geralt believing him to be incompetent at surviving.“I’ll have you know—”“S’not safe,” Geralt says into Jaskier’s shoulders.“Right. Snot.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 336





	i can be a mountain (when you're feeling valley low)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brel/gifts).



> this is nothing more than absolute self-indulgence for [brel <3](https://twitter.com/kitherin)
> 
> title comes from crowded table by the highwomen for reasons.

Jaskier is traipsing through the crowded market, delighting in the sights and sounds of the last large gathering before winter sets in, when he catches sight of a cloak from the corner of his eyes. It’s large and hooded, colored a dark slate gray similar to the storm clouds rolling in the distance; it looks thick and warm, decidedly better than the worn one he’s had for a few seasons, and it is absolutely perfect for him.

Attention caught, he veers off toward the leather tent it’s beneath.

Geralt, ever the watchman, puts his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and pulls him back in. “Where are you going?” he asks, soft and quiet, right next to his ear. “We don’t have time to linger.”

“Shopping.” Jaskier attempts to tug himself away.

Geralt flicks his gaze toward the stall and sighs. “You don’t need another cloak, Jaskier.” His voice is stern, fondly exasperated—they’ve come a long way since the djinn, since the mountain, brought together again, even stronger than before, because of their own need to be with one another regardless of destiny, and it’s times like these when it shows. “You have yours, and if you truly feel like you need another, you can take mine.”

“Absolutely not,” Jaskier replies, huffily, but the thought of wearing something that belongs to Geralt is more than a little tempting. To be wrapped up in the warm scent of his witcher? That’s a paradise that even the coast does not compare to, but Jaskier will not take up that offer at the expense of his witcher’s comfort and health. He isn’t that depraved. “What will you use?”

Geralt shrugs. “I’ll be fine. I can handle weather better than you, and I don’t get sick.”

Jaskier frowns at the lies his witcher is spewing. One would think that Geralt would’ve gotten over his martyr complex through the almost-thirty years they’ve known one another, but, unfortunately, that is not the case. “No,” he says with finality and pulls himself free. The stall is warm and smells heady; he nods to the man at the back, stitching a heavy thread through a thick piece of hide. “Good afternoon, sir, I would like to inquire—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt catches him once more, wrapping his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist to keep him still. He can feel the heat of Geralt’s palm even through the layers of his doublet and overcoat. “You don’t need this cloak. It’s entirely too much, and we won’t be on the path for long before the next town.”

The man huffs where he’s at in the corner, clearly having an opinion on the small argument but, wisely, keeping his mouth shut.

“You heard the alderman, Geralt,” he says, paying no attention to the owner in favor of searching the vibrant yellow of his witcher’s eyes for a reason behind his fervent need to derail Jaskier from purchasing a new cloak. “A storm is blowing in, and with it is going to come snow. I don’t want to freeze.”

“You won’t.” Geralt’s grip on his wrist tightens imperceptibly, just enough for Jaskier to consciously be aware of it. “I’ll keep you warm.”

Jaskier fights down the rising flush that begins on his neck and crawls upward; Geralt has no idea what it is that he’s doing to Jaskier’s fragile, cavernous heart with his words. “As flattered as I am, my dear, there’s only so much your arms can protect me from.” He smiles and removes Geralt’s fingers from his wrist. “I’m getting this cloak, Geralt. It’d be wise if you got something, as well.”

Geralt opens his mouth to speak, to probably attempt once more to talk Jaskier out of his spontaneous decision, but he seems to think better of it and says, instead, gruffly and annoyed, “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says in a very ‘suit-yourself’ fashion. “But when the storm blows in and you’re freezing, I’m not going to share with you no matter how much you beg.”

Geralt lets Jaskier walk away from him. Beneath his breath, he says, “I won’t beg,” and Jaskier tosses a quick prayer to whatever god happens to be listening that his witcher pulls his head out of his ass before he makes a fool of himself.

*

Just as the alderman said, the snow comes later that evening when the temperature takes a dive for the worst. It begins as a faint sleet, similar to misty rain; Jaskier hurries to put his lute away, tucked into the case, and Geralt sighs as he adjusts the cloak around his shoulders and blanket beneath Roach’s saddle.

The sleet is quick to morph into a heavier snowfall, shrouding the ground in a thin layer of white fluff. It’s when the wind picks up and the snow becomes denser that Geralt grabs Jaskier’s shoulder and prompts him to climb atop Roach. They press together as they have dozens of times before—Jaskier settles in front of Geralt and Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist, resting his forearms on Jaskier’s thighs as he holds the reins.

“Perhaps we should stop,” Jaskier says. His fingertips are cold and numb beneath the cotton gloves; Geralt grabs them up in his and holds them gently. “It’d be better to lose time than lose a limb, my dear.”

Geralt grunts, as he does, and ignores Jaskier promptly.

“If not for us, Geralt, then at least for Roach.”

“Roach is fine.”

Jaskier lets out an exhale of discontent but stays quiet. Geralt wraps him up tighter, closer, and holds the lapels of the cloak closed. Jaskier is so warm, almost sweating, and he isn’t sure if he’s simply burning beneath Geralt’s body heat or on the verge of hypothermia.

“I’m sleepy.”

When Geralt speaks, his mouth is right next to Jaskier’s ear. “Rest,” he permits, hooking his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’ll not let you fall.”

“You’ll freeze,” Jaskier says, but it’s faint and gets carried away on the wind.

Geralt pulls Jaskier’s head backward till he’s laying his cheek against Geralt’s chest. “I’ll be fine,” he says, and he’s spoken the same words so many times in the last few hours that Jaskier is inclined to believe him. He pulls the hood of Jaskier’s cloak further down to cover his face; _quen_ only lasts so long before it wavers and vanishes. “I’ll keep you warm.”

Jaskier nods, bumping his head into Geralt’s chin. He trusts Geralt, knows that Geralt won’t let anything terrible happen to him; the two of them are in this life together, for better or for worse, and choosing to walk the path with each other also means varying percentiles of confidence and certainty.

Jaskier’s always had an abundance of faith in his witcher, so trusting Geralt to keep him warm is one of the most simplest things.

*

When Jaskier awakens, it’s late morning and the sun is bright outside of the cave they must’ve hunkered down in during the storm, shining on the layers of fluffy snow and making it too white, too bright. He winces and turns away from the mouth of the cave, nestling further into the warmth of the furs. They smell of earth and sweat and dust; there’s a bit of Geralt’s heat still left behind and he huffs, breathing it in and wallowing, knowing he will smell like his witcher until they bathe next.

He must drift a bit because the next thing he’s aware of is the uncharacteristically noisy witcher moving about, trudging with heavy footfalls and loud breaths. Jaskier rises and takes the bowl of soup Geralt hands him; he keeps the furs on and only decides to comment on Geralt’s odd movements once, eliciting a nasty response.

“Mind your fucking business, bard, and eat your soup. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

So Jaskier does as he is told, reckoning it’s better to listen to Geralt than continue to anger him further. And if Geralt’s voice sounds a little bit too hoarse and gravelly? Well, Jaskier keeps his thoughts to himself.

The soup is good and filling, a simple broth with vegetables. He follows it down with several swigs of water from the canteen Geralt tossed to him and then sets to packing up. Between the two of them, it doesn’t take long to gather everything and shove it back where it belongs; Jaskier is adjusting the hood of his cloak, thankful for the purchase even though it made his coin purse considerably lighter, when he catches sight of Geralt.

Geralt is trying to mount Roach, slowly and awkwardly, but his leg isn’t high enough and he misses the stirrup. Jaskier’s brows furrow in confusion but he shrugs it off; perhaps Geralt is a bit disoriented this morning, especially with the sheer brilliance of the snow. 

Geralt attempts his mount again and, oddly, fails once more, this time falling against Roach’s flank with a sneeze. And then another, so harsh it shakes his entire body, which is _of fucking course_ covered only in his threadbare cloak.

 _Gods, this idiot never listens_.

“Geralt?” he calls. “May I offer—”

Abruptly, Geralt’s knees give out beneath him and he sinks to the snowy floor with a yelp. Roach snits and steps to the side, out of the way, as if she’s disappointed in her witcher at not being able to climb atop her back.

With a rush of panic that stuffs his throat, Jaskier hurries forward and kneels beside his witcher. He grabs Geralt’s shoulders and rolls him over; Geralt’s eyes are shut and his mouth is parted, and he’s breathing with a frightening rattle-wheeze that makes Jaskier wince.

“Oh, Geralt.” He moves bits of Geralt’s wispy hair off his forehead and then leans forward to press his lips between the furrow of Geralt’s brows. He’s burning up, which isn’t surprising, but it is very, very unsettling. Jaskier has dealt with Geralt’s many injuries over the years they’ve travelled together; he’s lucky his mother, elf that she is, taught him herbal remedies as a child just in case he struck out on an adventure, as is his destiny, it seems, but he has never handled a _sick_ Geralt. This is new. “You foolish man. I told you. I told you, and yet you didn’t listen.”

He brushes his fingertips along Geralt’s hot skin and thinks for a moment. They’re too far from the town to travel in reverse, and the cave, though helpful as a shelter, is not large or deep enough to shove Geralt inside while he sweats and sleeps out this sickness. He’s alone—Yennefer won’t catch up with the two of them for another two or three weeks yet, and Eskel and Lambert are already on their way toward the keep. He’s on his own here.

Jaskier gathers Geralt’s long hair in his fist. “You owe me for this one, my love,” he says, quietly, for fear that Geralt still may hear him regardless of being deeply unconscious. He leans forward and presses his lips to Geralt’s temple in a kiss of sweet affection, and then he stands up and gets to work.

*

Thankfully, Geralt rouses about enough to aid Jaskier in helping him off Roach’s saddle; however, he very nearly tips over, face-first, onto the ground, but with Jaskier’s coaxing and handle of him he’s saved from biting the dirt.

“Jask?”

“You are a liar, my dear,” Jaskier replies. He wraps his arm around Geralt’s waist and curls Geralt’s around his shoulders in order to lead Geralt toward the small rock cottage he found abandoned and nestled into the shelf of a hill. “You should know not to tell stories to me by now. Showing a bit of humanity isn’t going to scare me away.”

“Didn’t lie,” Geralt says, raspy. He clutches Jaskier’s cloak tight, balling the fabric in his fists and holding on as if his life is on the line. “Never been sick before.”

“Of course you haven’t.”

“‘M not lying.” Geralt turns his head and smushes his face into Jaskier’s shoulder as the two of them conquer the three wooden steps leading up to the door of the cottage. He sniffs, hard, surely smelling Jaskier’s sweat, and sighs, seemingly soothed. “Where we at?”

“I found a place for us to shelter while you rest and recover.”

“Proud of you for finding a place—you’re so _good_ at that,” Geralt says, and Jaskier wants to be offended, he truly does, but then Geralt is adding, “We don’t have to stop,” like a bastard, and Jaskier sees red for a whole different reason than Geralt believing him to be incompetent at surviving.

“I’ll have you know—”

“S’not safe,” Geralt says into Jaskier’s shoulders.

“Right. Snot.” He snorts and shoulders into the cottage. It’s small, open, and sparsely furnished; there’s a room off to the right, blocked off by a door that isn’t sitting on its hinges, and Jaskier drags Geralt along with him as he heads toward it.

Inside, there is a bed. It’s small but big enough for Geralt to sprawl out on, which he does, gracelessly, after Jaskier quite literally tosses him down. He lands with a bounce, which is just _this side_ of adorable, and proceeds to immediately wrap himself up in the moth-eaten quilts, cuddling into the fabric and huffing nasally.

Jaskier wants to admonish his witcher, tell him that he could have been patient and allowed Jaskier to at least beat off the dust from the quilts before he rolled himself up tight, but he finds that he can’t do that. Geralt looks so pitiful with nothing more than the tip of his nose, red as the maple leaves that Jaskier loves so much, sticking out from the quilts as he breathes loudly, clogged and stuffy.

“Geralt?”

“Hmm.”

“I’m going to gather our things from Roach,” Jaskier says. “I’ll be back, and then I’ll brew some tea and give you some medicine.” He looks around, wildly, for a moment, and finds an overturned wooden tub that won’t be too difficult to fill with snow for water. “And perhaps a hot bath, as well.”

Geralt doesn’t speak, which isn’t unexpected. Satisfied, Jaskier turns to leave, but there’s suddenly fingers wrapping around his wrist and holding him back. It’s Geralt—of course it’s Geralt, needy thing that he is when he’s under the weather, it seems, and Jaskier stops, turns, sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Jask?”

“Yes, my dear?”

Geralt wriggles about till his face is free of the blankets. He opens his eyes into half-slits, the honeyed-yellow dull with illness, and says, “Love you,” like it’s so simple, like Jaskier’s world hasn’t just bubbled up and toppled over and rearranged itself into a whole different level of paradise.

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something in return, but before he can find the words to do so, Geralt lets out a grunt and rolls over, seemingly asleep. Jaskier sits there for a moment, reflecting, and it hits him like an avalanche of mud—he loves this man, this foolish witcher with a heart made of gold that is even more brilliant than his eyes somehow, and he never noticed before.

Hmm. How peculiar.

He makes sure that Geralt is tucked tight into the blankets before rising and leaving the room. He’s got a lot on his mind, and he plans to use the time it takes unsaddling their things and getting a bath and medication ready for Geralt to mull over the abrupt, world-shifting knowledge he has just been presented with.

*

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to unload Roach and see to her, comfortable and warm, in the insulated lean-to that’s tucked beside the house and into the hill. As luck has it, there’s a bale of hay, and he kicks it out and she whinnies and nips at the top of his head in thanks before shoving her nose into the straw and fixing it to her liking.

Readying the bath takes longer. The crepitating creek isn’t far behind the house; it takes only five buckets of water to fill the wooden tub that was overturned once he’s washed it clean, and he’s gotten good at building fires through his travels with Geralt that he has one roaring beneath the bath in no time.

He checks Geralt during his tasks, monitoring his temperature and condition. He slips a bit of liquid medicine down Geralt’s throat, easing the acrid taste with tea as he waits for the bath to heat. He rouses Geralt and coaxes his head into his lap; he cards his fingers through Geralt’s sweat-wet hair and tips a few swallows of water down his throat and wipes away the excess that pours down Geralt’s cheeks.

Geralt looks so… unnatural like this. He’s significantly paler than he usually is; his lips are a lot less pink than Jaskier’s favorite pansy and his hair is wilted. The dark purple bags beneath his eyes are terrifying and the way he trembles, full-bodied and sharp, is too much for Jaskier to hold him still.

It’s worrying. He’s making it up as he goes, doing to Geralt what his mother did to him, and if that doesn’t work—if that doesn’t work, then Jaskier will figure it out. He’s self-sufficient; he always figures it out.

*

Once everything is put away and set up, he pulls Geralt from his cocoon of blankets and peels away his clothing. His armor needs cleaning, so Jaskier stores it behind the door to serve as a reminder, something for his hands to do after Geralt is bathed, fed, and once again resting.

“Come on, Geralt.” He takes hold of Geralt and leads him toward the tub. “Time to bathe.”

Geralt’s gasp is choked. “Bath time?” There’s a layer of excitement in his voice that makes Jaskier chuckle. “I _love_ bath time.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” Geralt stuffs his face into Jaskier’s hair once more and breathes in; he must smell terrible, like sweat and Roach and sickness, but Geralt acts like he’s never scented anything better. “A’most as much as I love you.”

Jaskier sighs, but his heart flutters and he can’t help the way his cheeks heat. If only that were real, he thinks.

Geralt is clingy. He’s naked, and damp with sick cold-sweat, and one arm is around Jaskier’s shoulders and the other is wrapped about Jaskier’s waist, and he is breathing, humid-hot, into the bend of Jaskier’s neck, mouthing at the skin there so insistently that Jaskier feels a gathering of arousal when he most certainly should not, and yet—and yet.

“Geralt,” he says, instead, because it’ll do no good for him to lose himself in Geralt’s sickly babbling, “let’s get you in the tub, yeah? And then you can go back to sleep and rest some more.”

“M’kay.”

A chill wafts over his body as he helps to lower Geralt into the tub, as slow as he can. Water rises and tips over the edge, spilling into the floor and onto Jaskier’s feet. “I’ll be right back,” he says, brushing a bit of Geralt’s hair away from his face. “Try not to drown, okay?”

Geralt gives a huff. “Not gonna _drown_ ,” he replies, drawing the last word out like a petulant child. “If you’re in here with me.”

“There’s no room,” he replies, pilfering through their bags for soap and oil and rags. 

“I can sit in your lap.”

Jaskier laughs. “Absolutely not, my dear.”

He returns and stokes the fire, setting a bowl of broth next to the flames. He rolls his shirtsleeves to his elbows, lathers the rag in his hands, and begins to gently, so gently, wipe at Geralt’s body, more to ease the aches of being sick than anything.

Geralt hums, as he always does when Jaskier takes his time to bathe him. “I want you with me,” he says.

“In the tub?”

“Yes, Jaskier,” Geralt replies, and he sounds so exasperated with Jaskier that it would be funny if it weren’t so confusing.

Jaskier dips the rag into the water and brings it up to rub at Geralt’s throat. “I’m afraid that can’t work, my dear.”

“Why not?”

Jaskier chuckles. “Well, you’re rather large,” he begins, holding Geralt’s long hair out of the way as he dabs at Geralt’s neck, “and I’m not exactly small.”

“That’s dumb.” Geralt frowns. “Why do you hate me?”

“What makes you think I hate you?”

“You won’t get in with me.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier laughs, “I can’t fit.”

“You fit in my heart,” Geralt says, easily, terribly easy, as if it isn’t the most groundbreaking thing Jaskier has ever heard. “My heart is tiny. It’s a lot smaller than this tub, and you fit all in there. So you can fit in this tub with me.”

Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat and doesn’t grace Geralt with a response. He babbles regardless, though, about nothing at all—Roach and Ciri and his brothers, and Yennefer and Vesemir—and Jaskier is only half-listening, offering Geralt enough attention that he won’t become pouty but allowing his thoughts to consume him.

Geralt’s words, spoken in sick delirium, sit heavy in the bottom of his stomach. He can’t deny that the words warm him from the inside out, spreading from his heart and throughout his body like a wildfire, and he wishes it were real, he wishes it so badly to be real because the hole in his chest cannot be filled otherwise, but to dwell on things he can’t have is like telling someone it’s going to rain when they are already wet.

He hurries to finish, pointedly ignoring the way that the water falls off Geralt’s body in rivulets as he helps Geralt stand and walk toward the bed. Geralt falls onto the bed, burrowing beneath the furs and blankets once more; Jaskier has a fleeting thought of Geralt as a child, hiding beneath cover as he plays with his brothers, and goes to retrieve the oil from his pack. The vile is warm in his hand; he’s hoping the oil will help Geralt relax and rest until he is more himself.

He pulls the furs to the sides, leaving Geralt’s back bare to the air, and readies the oil in his palm, warming it up even more between his hands, and rubbing it liberally over his witcher. He pays special mind to the tight spots he can feel beneath his fingertips, pressing and kneading the knots until Geralt is pliant, easy and deliciously loose.

Satisfied, Jaskier stops the vile and reaches to cover Geralt up once more, but before he can he’s being snatched around the waist and tugged down onto the bed. Geralt maneuvers them this way and that, shifting until they are face to face, breathing in one another’s air.

Geralt smiles. “Hi.”

Jaskier huffs, praying his racing heart steadies once more. “Hi, Geralt.” He brings a hand up to feel Geralt’s forehead. “You’re still feverish, but you aren’t as warm as you first were. That’s good.” He moves his hand lower, cradling Geralt’s cheek, and swipes his thumb, once, indulgently across Geralt’s lower lip.

With a sparkle in his eyes, Geralt turns his head and sucks Jaskier’s thumb into his mouth. It’s wet and hot, and his tongue moves like magic, and Jaskier flounders for a moment before Geralt gives him a big grin. “That’s how I want you to suck my dick tomorrow,” he says, and Jaskier’s vision goes white.

“I swear,” Jaskier begins, “that you are going to be the death of me in one way or another.” He pulls his hand back and settles. “What are you staring at?”

“I like your face.”

“It’s quite a face, if I may say so.” There’s no reason for him to be humble—he’s handsome and he knows it, and the knowledge that Geralt appreciates the way he looks, too, makes the tip of his ears warm. “I like your face, too.”

“Good. S’good.” Geralt slings his leg atop Jaskier’s, moving their lower bodies closer. Jaskier’s thankful for the furs separating them. “‘Cause you’ll be lookin’ at it for the rest of your life.”

“Is that so?”

Geralt nods. “That’s _so_ so.”

Jaskier shakes his head, so fond it feels like he’s sinking. “You need to eat,” he says, changing the subject. He tries to roll away, but Geralt stops and pins him down quite effectively. “Geralt?”

“I’ll eat in the morning,” he replies, and he sounds clear-headed and normal, more than he has in hours. “Stay with me till I fall asleep?”

Jaskier swallows. “Of course,” he agrees. He reaches for one of Geralt’s hand, holding it between both of his. “Of course.”

Geralt’s smile is soft, timid. “Thank you.” He cuddles close, like a newborn searching for familiar warmth. “You make the nightmares go away.”

Stunned, Jaskier blinks and opens his mouth to speak, but when he finds the words he wants to say he notices that Geralt is fast asleep, lips parted and cheeks tinged red from fever, and he decides that everything can wait for the morning.

*

Hours later, Jaskier wakes to a faint rumbling against his back and a hardness pressed into the cleft of his ass. Immediately, he knows who it is—Geralt; who else would it ever be?—and the previous day comes back to him in waves, like the lazy licking of the tide on the sand as it wets the beach.

He blinks his eyes open and sees that the sun is rising through the window, bathing the world in the blue dawn light. The room is almost humid with heat, and beneath the fur and covers, pressed against Geralt’s body, it’s even hotter, skin-warm instead of unnaturally feverish; he can hear the fire roaring and knows that Geralt must’ve spelled it from dying sometime through the night.

He sighs and shuffles further into the furs, soaking in the warmth and allowing himself to bask in the heat for just a moment longer. He deserves this, after all, being promised that Geralt would keep him warm, and waking up to Geralt’s hardness pressed just against the back of his thighs is nothing short of a delight.

“I know you’re awake, Jaskier,” Geralt whispers in his ear, tightening the arm he has slung across Jaskier’s waist. “Your breathing changed.”

Jaskier shuts his eyes because he isn’t quite ready to face reality yet. “You’re warm,” he muses, more to himself than Geralt. Carefully, he rolls in Geralt’s embrace, turning to face his witcher. "You look much better." 

"Thanks to you." 

Jaskier blushes, just a bit. “How are you feeling?”

Geralt’s color is better, less sickly white and more normally pale; his hair is shoved back and a bit greasy, nothing that a quick wash can’t fix, and the smile on his face isn’t new, really, but it pleases Jaskier nonetheless. “Better,” he replies, always so eloquent.

“I can tell.” Jaskier’s grin is filthy and Geralt rolls his eyes but he doesn’t make any move to shift away to hide how hard he is. “I thought you said witchers couldn’t get sick.”

Geralt shrugs. “I guess I’m the exception,” he responds, and there’s a twinkle in his eye that reminds Jaskier, vaguely, of how it felt to wish upon his first star when he was a child.

“Of course you are.” Jaskier reaches up to feel Geralt’s forehead, just to be sure, and moves his hand to Geralt’s shoulder once he’s satisfied, gripping tightly as one does when they wish to not fly away from this very moment. “You said some things last night, Geralt.”

“I did.” There is nothing in Geralt’s tone but honesty and clarity. Still, though, Jaskier is not sure what to make of it, and it frightens him almost as much as seeing Geralt sick did. “I remember.”

“Did you mean them?”

Geralt is silent at first, bringing his hand up to cup Jaskier’s face delicately. He cards the other through Jaskier’s hair, smiling. “I reckon you’ll have to find out for yourself,” he says, impish, playful in a way that will never get old, and leans forward, eliminating the sparse space between their mouths and taking Jaskier’s lips with his own.

Jaskier flails momentarily, caught off guard by Geralt’s abrupt kiss, and when Geralt laughs against his lips and shifts, running the tip of his tongue along the seam of Jaskier’s mouth, he opens, as one does when Geralt kisses them, and allows his mouth to be plundered as if there is a treasure hidden inside.

It’s hot and wet, tongues slick and hands tugging at bare skin and itchy clothing, and Jaskier divests himself of all inhibitions and flings himself atop Geralt, pushing him over onto his back so he may straddle his hips. Their mouths pull apart and come together; one kiss leads to another, and then another, and then it’s as if they are only parting for breath that they drag in with their lips pressed against each other’s skin because neither of them wish to be deprived of a single taste of the other.

They kiss till their mouths are numb, till Jaskier can no longer ignore the breadth of Geralt’s hardness beneath his lap and instead shifts his weight to grind against the length. Geralt breaks their kiss with a purred moan that vibrates his chest. Jaskier chuckles and moves against Geralt’s length once more, just to feel the heat as it pressed up between his clothed thighs. He has wanted to feel this for—decades.

Geralt grabs his hips, stilling his movements. “Is this the moment you give me the sucking I asked for last night?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. It’s more of a taunt, one that Jaskier knows he won’t shy away from, and the grin he flashes Jaskier is only confirmation. 

“You fiend.”

“That isn’t a no.”

Jaskier huffs like he’s put out but he is so very far from being inconvenienced at the opportunity to suck Geralt’s dick. It’s only something that he has thought about on multiple occasions, staying up late and watching the way the moon plays across his witcher’s face, wondering how he would look bare beneath Jaskier’s mouth as explicit pleasure meandered through his veins.

“Only because you asked so nicely, my dear,” he says, and the laugh Geralt gives him is better than any song he has ever heard.

Jaskier moves and bends, and takes Geralt into the heat of his mouth. Geralt’s warm and he tastes sweaty; he’s a heavy weight on Jaskier’s tongue, welcomed and revered, and Jaskier moans when Geralt sifts a hand through his hair, eliciting a breathy gasp.

He suckles gently, lazily, setting a pace that sticks Geralt’s prick down his throat every other stroke; he fondles between Geralt’s legs and hums, reveling in the captivating sounds falling from Geralt’s lips as his body goes tight with mounting tension. Geralt comes fast and long, and Jaskier nurses him through it, pulling off only when Geralt makes a punched-out plea for him to rise so he can be kissed, silly and breathless and deep.

He leans away once he’s sure Geralt has licked his mouth clean of seed. “I’ve been waiting to do that,” he begins, punctuating each word with a kiss to the scars on Geralt’s face, “for so long.”

“What was stopping you?”

Jaskier chooses to kiss Geralt some more instead of answering, allowing himself to be rolled over and tucked against Geralt’s side. He’s half-hard now, his erection having flagged not long after Geralt came, and there’s no pressing need to touch himself to completion just yet, so he enjoys this moment for a bit longer, kissing Geralt as much as he can because that’ something he can do now.

Geralt pulls away and pokes at the skin beneath Jaskier’s eyes until he opens them. “Everything I said was true, you know,” he says, and it takes a moment for Jaskier to realize what he is talking about and, oh, they’re having this conversation now, it seems.

“I know.” Geralt doesn’t have it in him to lie. He can fib, perhaps, if the time calls for it, but he’s never been one to purposefully deceive anyone. “It’s the same for me.”

“I know.” Geralt smiles, stroking his thumb, rough with callouses, against the skin of Jaskier’s cheek. “I’ve known for years. You can’t hide a single thing from me, Jask.”

Jaskier frowns. “How long?”

“It was our second year together. We were in a town and it was raining, and there was a young boy who had no shelter. We brought him with us to Roach’s stable because the inn had no rooms available, and we stayed until the weather cleared. We brought him to the alderman, who took him in as a ward.”

The scene plays out in Jaskier’s head, fuzzy and dull with age but still just as clear now as it was then. He was so enamored with Geralt that night—he had seen the witcher’s kindness before that moment, of course, but it was then that he realized his easy affection for Geralt ran a lot deeper than that of a friend. He swore then that he would love this man before him until the end of time, and that hasn’t changed, even after all the years between then and now.

“I remember that.” Jaskier laughs and finds Geralt’s hand with his, tangling their fingers. “You stayed up all night with the child, holding him close when the thunder was loud.” Jaskier knew then that Geralt would have no trouble with Ciri, when he eventually decided to pull his head free of his ass and claim his child surprise. “You gave him your cloak and a dagger as a parting gift.”

Geralt nods. “I did.”

“What gave it away?”

Geralt smiles, as if it is giving him great pleasure to recount this story. “The child ran out to hug me as we were leaving. You gasped, and your scent changed for a moment, and I knew something changed. I didn’t know it was the moment you realized you loved me till later, though.”

“That was—years ago. Decades. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wasn’t ready,” Geralt replies with an honesty so sharp that it cuts clean to Jaskier’s heart. He blinks, once, and his sun-colored eyes shine. “Were you?”

“No,” Jaskier says, quickly, and then, with a moment’s thought, “No, I suppose I wasn’t.” Because he was young and idiotic, and now, technically, he’s middle-aged by human standards and slightly less idiotic, and he has settled more into who he truly is. He can’t imagine the influence Geralt would have had on who he is now had the two of them spoken of their mutual feelings decades ago. “And now?”

Geralt smiles, soft as sin. “I love you, Jaskier,” he says, and it is so easy, then, for Jaskier to see all the times in the past that Geralt has told him so without using the words. “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. Everything that I have come to possess and cherish is because of you.” He kisses Jaskier, once. “Sick or healthy, I meant what I said. I love you, and I will love you until the end of time.”

Jaskier thinks, quickly, that the reason he is trying to crawl inside of Geralt’s body in order to be as close to him as he can be is because his world has suddenly tilted with the revelation that his feelings are returned, but he finds that he doesn’t care. The sun is out, Geralt loves him back, winter is approaching, and there is nothing that can touch him.

“I love you, you disgustingly patient man,” Jaskier says, and Geralt laughs, catching Jaskier in his arms, and they kiss until Geralt’s stomach rumbles and they have to break apart, but they don’t stray far from one another at all.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu [twitter](https://twitter.com/geraskefers)


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